


Lorem Ipsum

by Saathi1013



Series: Lorem Ipsum [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Attempted Rape, Drug Addiction, Established Relationship, Hostage Situation, Hurt/Comfort, Latin, OT3, Other, Psychological Torture, Threesome - F/M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah, in Moriarty's clutches; John and Sherlock, on the hunt. It's not pleasant for anyone.</p><p>[This fic/series is canonical for BBC's Sherlock, Season ONE only; it's wildly divergent otherwise.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lorem Ipsum

**Author's Note:**

> Primary beta & britpick: Caoilin_Noir; final series polish provided by Mazarin 221b.
> 
> Special thanks to Carolyn_Claire, AccioAyla, Atlin_Merrick, Livia_Carica, MarieLikesToDraw, & BlanketForYourShock.

Day One  
  
Sarah's being led somewhere, an iron grip on her bound wrists behind her and Moriarty's voice ahead. It echoes like she's in a tunnel, or a long corridor. She couldn't say for sure, because there's a blindfold over her eyes, tightly-knotted and scratchy and dark.  
  
"You weren't my  _intended_  guest," Moriarty says, "but I'm sure you'll make yourself at  _home._ " She hears the jangle of keys and the heavy creak of a metal door before she's unceremoniously shoved forwards. He continues, "You'll pardon me if I don't give you the grand tour, but I've a criminal empire to run."  
  
Sarah pulls the fabric from her eyes, blinking against the light just before the door swings shut and plunges her into darkness once more. She reaches out, finds the closest wall, and starts to slide down against it, the sheer futility of her situation overwhelming her.  
  
But there's an odd texture under her palms, and when she nears the floor, the raised edge of a skirting board bumps against her fingertips, suggesting something more than a simple cell. She takes a deep breath and gets to her feet again, looking for a light.  
  
She finds a switch plate, common and ordinary and  _familiar,_  right by the door, and flicks it on.  
When she sees her surroundings, she can't help but gasp.   
  
 _Oh, you clever, awful bastard,_  she thinks, impressed despite herself.  
  
  
Day One  
  
Uncle Victor is  _livid._  Apparently, Sarah's abduction is somehow John's fault, a sign that he's unfit for Sarah's affections. John has enough to deal with - Sherlock has a concussion, and Harry's champagne intake interacted badly with the sleeping gas - so he puts up with Victor's accusations for all of two minutes before excusing himself at the earliest opportunity that presents itself.  
  
Later, he sees Mycroft having a quiet word with Victor, after which the latter man makes himself blessedly scarce. John may not like Mycroft personally, but he's damned handy to have on your side.  
  
He calls Clara for Harry, knowing he'll catch hell for it later but determinedly  _not caring._  Whatever dramas the two share, they're not even remotely his priority, and there's nothing like a sudden near-death experience to jolt these things into proper perspective.  _They may even make up for good,_  he thinks with the dogged optimism one can only muster when one's own life has gone completely pear-shaped.  
  
He gives his statement to Lestrade and to a terrifyingly unassuming man that Mycroft brings in, introducing him as his "public-relations man," whatever that means. Anthea lingers outside the doorway, looking bereft without a mobile grafted to her hand. When Mycroft leaves, she rushes in, expression devastated.  
  
"I'm sorry," she says, "I'm  _so_  sorry. I can't  _believe_  he managed to hack my system. Even Mossad has been banging its collective head against my firewalls for  _months_  without any headway, I can't imagine-"  
  
"He'd have found a way to get to us eventually," John interrupts, currently lacking any kind of patience for her guilt. He wonders if this is what Sherlock feels like  _all the time_  in the face of other people's  _emotions_  clogging up rationality and the singular pursuit of a purpose. "If not today, then tomorrow, or the next day. I don't blame you, and if Mycroft gives you any problems, I'll break his jaw for you."  
  
She laughs, a little shakily, and gives him an abrupt hug before rushing off after her boss. John paces back to Sherlock's bedside and sinks into a chair, waiting.  
  
"Wake up," he says quietly to Sherlock. "Wake up this instant, because I need you to point me in the right direction. I'll knock down every wall in our way, hurt whoever we need to for information, but I need you to tell me where to  _go._ " Which is... a bit  _not right;_  he knows this. The neurons wired to uphold the Hippocratic Oath and the Geneva Convention are screaming bloody murder at him, but he can't bring himself to care.  
  
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," a rough voice says at the door, and John looks over at Lestrade.  
  
"Probably for the best, yeah," John agrees, too weary to be ashamed.  
  
Lestrade comes in, claims the other chair by Sherlock's bed, and they wait together in silence.  
  
  
Day Two  
  
Sarah has spent all night cataloguing her prison, unable and unwilling to sleep for obvious reasons.   
  
It is a nearly- _perfect_  replica of the first floor of 221b, down to the papers scattered artlessly on every flat surface. The wallpaper, the furniture, the bullet holes in the smiling graffiti, all precisely - even lovingly - recreated.  
  
There are very specific things missing, however.  
  
The cupboards, drawers, and appliances in the kitchen are empty. The stove isn't hooked up. There is an absence of all of the scientific equipment Sherlock has at home, not even a microscope or a test-tube rack on the counter.  
  
The bathroom is likewise bare by comparison. She finds only a bar of soap by the sink, a bottle of Sherlock's shampoo in the shower, and a single set of towels (perfect matches to the ones she bought when Sherlock & John were ill) on the shelf.  
  
There are no objects resembling weapons, not even the rusting knife Sherlock uses to pin correspondence to the mantlepiece beside the skull (which is also missing). Each pane and panel of glass has been replaced with clear, shatterproof plastic.  
  
The books, when she pulls one down, have blank pages, and the cluttering papers are all covered in a nonsensensical language ( _Nobody likes pain for its own sake, or looks for it and wants to have it, just because it is pain,_  she translates with her rusty Latin; it chills her to the bone, but the rest is gibberish as far as she can tell). There are no pens or writing implements of any kind.  
  
The television is a cardboard display like those used in furniture shops. Behind the curtains are simple light panels, providing illumination but no escape, no clue as to her actual location. She could be miles underground for all she can tell.  
  
There are cameras in the upper corners of every room, including bed and bath.  
  
It makes her skin crawl, all of it, but she understands it. It reminds her of a zoo, or of the jar she'd used to catch insects when she was young. Faithful, but inherently flawed, recreations of the 'natural habitat' of one's captive.  
  
Moriarty's intention was to provide for Sherlock all the comforts of home, without any  _distractions._  It would drive Sherlock slowly mad (madder?) until he finally cracked and begged for something, anything to keep occupied.  
  
Moriarty didn't want to  _kill_  Sherlock, but to  _break_  him.  
  
It is small consolation that when she rushes to the toilet in a fit of nausea, the plumbing actually works.  
  
  
Day Two  
  
The doctors let Sherlock leave at midday, with attendant cautions that John knows before they're uttered and which Sherlock ignores in favour of catching up on news reports from his phone.  
  
Once they're out, Sherlock directs the cabbie to New Scotland Yard.  
  
"You ought to be resting," John says. But it's not even a token of protest, not really; it comes out by rote. He can feel the hum of anticipation, the building pressure in his chest that signals an approaching battle, and he's utterly powerless to resist.  
  
“Not when we’ve a man to kill,” Sherlock replies absently, clever fingers tap-tapping at his phone. The cabbie sends a startled glance at the pair of them through the rear-view mirror.  
  
Somehow,  _this_  – this moment, with Sherlock focused on the most important case they’ve ever had, grim and dark and determined with a frightened cabbie (as well he should be, John can’t be bothered to deny it) staring at them warily – is what makes him say, fierce and true, “I love you.”  
  
Sherlock’s hands still for a moment. He doesn’t reply, but John sees the corner of his mouth lift, just a little, before he goes back to whatever it is he’s doing.  
  
The cabbie drives on.  
  
  
Day Three  
  
No one’s come to see Sarah since her arrival. She’s woken to find food on the kitchen table (plastic utensils, styrofoam plates and cups) but hasn’t ever seen anyone bringing it. She wonders what Sherlock would do, or John.  
  
Sherlock would catalogue every error in the place and take down the cameras. The latter option is immediately appealing, but when she gets close to one of the machines, a red light starts flashing that has nothing to do with its recording function. There are also bulky shapes attached to the housing and rather too many wires than may be strictly necessary. She backs away slowly and the light goes off.  
  
Sherlock would have been able to tell whether or not it were a real bomb, so Moriarty would have made it real.  
  
John would improvise weapons and devise plans of attack and escape. He would exercise, keep his back and shoulder from stiffening up. She knows better; she hasn’t the training, and her best bet is to play along until…  
  
She’s not quite sure what she’ll be waiting for, but she’ll know it when she sees it. Maybe Moriarty will get  _bored,_ eventually. One can but hope. She picks up a sheet of paper and tries to translate it again.  _Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet,_  she reads, before noticing that the second paragraph has oddly capitalised letters in it.  
  
A message, of course.  _BORED YET?_  it reads. Deliberate taunt from one genius to another. She imagines Sherlock balling up the page and tossing it across the room with a fierce scowl.  
  
She sets the page aside and assesses her surroundings, considering her options.  
  
  
Day Three  
  
According to regulations, Lestrade can't allow Sherlock free access to the files on Moriarty. “Come on,” he says to John, “let's get coffee from the break room, eh? You look like a man that needs caffeine.” Looking bewildered, John follows, but Sherlock stays behind in the DI's office, stewing in disgruntled silence.   
  
Lestrade tries not to give him a significant look as he goes. That would be too obvious, wouldn't it?  
  
John, however, is clearly a page behind, still in yesterday's clothes and eyes heavy from lack of proper sleep. Lestrade takes pity on the man. “Be a shame if Sherlock knew the password to my computer,” he says casually.  
  
It still takes the other man a second, and Lestrade wonders if this is what Sherlock feels like  _all the time_. “Oh,” John says at last. “ _Oh._ ” He closes his mouth quickly, regaining his equilibrium. “Right. You're... absolutely right.”   
  
He takes the coffee Lestrade holds out to him and things are quiet for a few minutes. Companionable, but there's an itch at the back of Lestrade's mind that he can't ignore.  
  
"He's taking this hard, isn't he?" Lestrade wants to bite his tongue for it, but there it is.   
  
John looks at him, confused again, so Lestrade feels the need to stammer out an explanation, "Well, anyone who didn't know him as well as I do might think that... he seemed rather more fond of her than. Ah. Was  _strictly_  appropriate..."   
  
How  _does_  one say to a friend that his flatmate might fancy his fiancée?  
  
John looks  _floored,_  and Lestrade regrets saying anything. This is the worst time he could  _possibly_  have chosen, in retrospect.  
  
"I thought," John starts, closing his jaw with a click and staring at the wall, clearly mustering a reply to what must be an impossible statement to process. "I thought you knew," he says finally. He ducks his head, rubbing the side of his eyebrow with one forefinger, a flush staining the back of his neck. "It's not like we've tried to hide it from  _you,_ " he mutters, and though Lestrade doesn't understand, he feels strangely complimented anyhow. "We. We three.  _Well._ "  
  
Somehow that stilted set of fragments is all Lestrade needs, and he takes a half-step back, dawning comprehension slamming into him.  _Really?_  he wants to ask,  _How does that even_ ** _work_** _?_  But he doesn't actually want to know any details, thanks, so he settles for stunned silence instead.  
  
Eventually he manages, "Oh. Right." And then, "It  _would_  take two people to look after him, wouldn't it?"  
  
John's face breaks open into merriment and his laughter is the best thing Lestrade's heard all day.  
  
  
Day Three  
  
Sarah considers breaking furniture, out of frustration and a desire to have something,  _anything_  to hand in case she has the opportunity to escape. But the unblinking gaze of the cameras keeps her in check.  
  
She  _refuses_  to give Moriarty a show. So she settles in on the couch, thinking. Looking for something to keep her occupied.  
  
Her eldest cousin was ten years her senior and had gotten a job right out of uni as a travelling sales representative. She remembers him bringing back trinkets for everyone, little things like toys and sweets, every time he visited. He'd never forgotten her, not once.  
  
When she was thirteen, he'd brought her a stack of delicate paper, screen-printed with colourful patterns and designs. It had been terribly disappointing, at first. Then he'd shown her how to fold and crease the little squares, careful and precise, turning the flat paper into animals and insects.  
  
She's a little out of practise, but her hands are deft from years of medicine and they warm up to the old habit fairly quickly.  
  
 _Lorem ipsum,_  the birds say, the words marching across their necks, over their wings,  _dolor sit amet._  
  
 _ARE YOU BORED YET?_  the unfolded pages say.  
  
 _Not yet,_  Sarah thinks, tearing the rectangles into squares and starting another crane.  
  
  
Day Three  
  
Sarah’s face is all over the news. John literally jumps up from his chair the first time he sees a photo of her – of  _them,_ at the engagement party.  
  
“What in  _absolute_  blazes is that?”  _He_  hasn’t even seen that photo yet.  
  
Sherlock glances over with disinterest. “Ah.  _That._ ” He looks away again, hands flying over the keyboard as he sifts through pilfered police files. “Mycroft occasionally likes to crowd-source his Big Brother impulses. Lazy sod. As if he doesn’t already have a thorough network in place.”  
  
“Not thorough enough,” John comments grimly. Sherlock doesn't answer, and John settles back down, flipping channels aimlessly while Sherlock works. He considers calling Mycroft for information – Sherlock certainly hasn't – but then he realises that if “Anthea's” phone has been compromised, then most of Mycroft's old intelligence has likely been corrupted, as well.  
  
John tried not to hold it against her. She'd apologised profusely at the hospital the other day, after all.   
  
Hours pass and the light through the curtains slowly dims. It feels as though John's been distilled into two driving forces: fury and anxiety. Fury at Moriarty, some for Sarah because  _really,_  who  _volunteers_  to go into the clutches of an amoral madman? He very studiously ignores the fact that he’d have done the same.   
  
Being worried for Sarah wins out over the anger, though. And ‘anxiety for Sherlock’ seems to be his default setting nowadays.  
  
John gets up to switch on the lights. He rests his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to convey comfort and reassurance and support as best he can without speaking, without distracting the mind at work. Sherlock sidles out from beneath his palm in a sinuous, catlike aversion to the touch.  
  
“Sherlock,” John says gently.  
  
“ _Don’t,_  John,” Sherlock snaps, standing up and crossing to the opposite corner of the room. “I don’t need your useless platitudes or pleas to ‘ _get some rest, Sherlock._ ’” This last in a sneering, imitated tone. “I  _need_  something to  _work_ with. Something to go on, to, to-” He throws up his hands, immeasurably frustrated.  
  
John understands, he does. Not just from watching Sherlock cycle through swings of ennui and mania, but from the barely-leashed impulse to rage through the streets himself. Only his long-ingrained discipline keeps him from getting his gun  _right now._  
  
“ _Sherlock,_ ” he says again, putting all of his empathy and certainty behind it.  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, icy and implacable once more, one hand on the window-glass. “You should leave, John. Go to the pub and drown your sorrows, whatever it is you  _simple_  people do. There isn’t anything here for you tonight.”  
  
And the fury behind John’s chest snaps like a rubber band, recoiling to a new target. “ _Fine,_ ” he snarls, grabbing his coat. “If you think solitude will somehow be more productive, I will leave you to it.  But you’d better text me the  _instant-_ “  
  
“Yes, yes,” Sherlock replies, voice hollow and remote. “’Or so help you,’ et cetera, et cetera…”  
  
In a fit of stubbornness, John steers clear of the pub and goes to Sarah’s instead, curling up atop her empty bed with all his clothes on.  
  
  
Day Four  
  
Sarah can’t bring herself to sleep in the replica of Sherlock’s bed. She’s afraid of the moment she wakes up, thinking all is well and that her captivity was a nightmare – only to have the nightmare reassert itself  _as_  reality. She sleeps on the sofa instead.  
  
She has, however, conceded to taking a shower, despite the ache that wells up in her throat when she smells the shampoo. The little bit of dignity it lends her is worth the risks. She flips the camera the two-fingered salute as she climbs in, though, trying to block its view with towel and curtain as much as possible.  
  
When she gets out, she dresses in a set of clothes she’s pulled from the dresser – pyjamas and tshirt, more faithfully-procured copies of Sherlock’s own – and wanders to the kitchen to see what they’ve left for her lunch.  
  
Moriarty’s on the couch, reclined on it as she’s seen Sherlock so many times before. He looks…  _comfortable,_  as if he does this all the bloody time, and the thought strikes her that  _he probably has._  It’s not surprising in the least, the mental image of him haunting this place, wondering what Sherlock is doing, plotting his next move against them.   
  
He has a book in his hands – a  _real_  book, with proper words on the pages. She knows this because it’s  _her_  book. It has her name written across the edges of the pages in marker, large childlike block printing in blue.  _S.SAWYER_.  
  
“What are you doing with that?” she asks. It had been her  _favourite_  book as a child, damn him.  
  
He looks over, grinning at her sideways. “I didn’t know you had a  _tattoo,_ ” he replies, sitting up with a lightning-quick twist. “Much more  _daring_  than I expected of you. But then, it’s not that old, so. Guess you’re making up for never acting out when you were young.”  
  
“What. Are. You doing. With my. Book,” she repeats, voice rising a little.  
  
“This?” He looks at the book in his hands as if he’d forgotten about it, then tosses it onto the table carelessly. She suppresses the urge to dive for it, but then she’d be within arms’ reach of him, and  _no._  She crosses her arms over her chest, instead. “Consider it a  _gift,_ ” he continues. “You’ve been  _so_  cooperative and besides, I’m having a good day.” His smile is expansive and cheerful, and absolutely sickening. “Don’t you want to know  _why?_ ”  
  
She simply scowls in response. He’ll tell her anyway.  
  
“A little birdie – and by ‘birdie’ I mean one of my drug-peddling underlings, of course – told me that Sherlock placed an _order_  last night,” Moriarty tells her, glee dancing in his eyes.  
  
Her stomach feels as though it’s dropped to her knees. “You’re lying.”  
  
“Nooo, sorry. Should I have gotten pictures? I can arrange that next time.”  
  
She flattens her mouth and looks away. “Why are you here.”  
  
He picks up one of her lopsided paper cranes and makes it dance across the arm of the couch. “To give you your gift,” he replies, sounding hurt. “And to get one for Sherlock.” She takes a step back, ready to bolt to the bedroom and shove something against the door. “No, no, if I’d wanted something like  _that,_  I’d have three strong men with guns at my side. I’d  _rather_  you gave it willingly.”  
  
“What.”  
  
“A single hair from your head, freshly plucked.” He spreads his hands wide. “See? Nothing terrible.”  
  
“You want. Wait. You’re going to give Sherlock a strand of my  _hair._ ”  
  
“Well, they’ll  _both_  get it. But Sherlock’s the one  _earned_  it.”  
  
She takes a deep breath and unwinds the towel from her hair, tossing it in his direction. “Take your pick,” she says. “And  _go._ ”  
  
  
Day Four  
  
John wakes, feeling stiff and disoriented, trying to recognize his surroundings in the dim morning light filtering through the curtains. Sarah’s flat, Sarah’s bed. He clutches the covers and pants for a moment as the shock of her absence floods him.   
  
 _Sarah. Sarah. Sarahsarahsarah._  Breathing; he knows how to do that, really.  _We’ll find you._  
  
The memory of her voice, scared but sure:  _Of_ ** _course_** _you will._  
  
He decides that facing Sherlock’s silence is better than rattling round Sarah’s empty flat. Trouble is, Sherlock’s not home, either. He puts down the coffees and the bag of pastries he’d brought as something of a peace-offering on the kitchen table. It’s been swept clean sometime between his leaving and this morning, the books and papers and -  _lovely,_  he thinks with resignation – glass instruments scattered across the floor.  
  
If he hadn’t picked up a thing or two from Sherlock since moving in, he’d think they’d been burgled. Or that Sherlock had been attacked. But there’s nothing else amiss, so John reads it for what it is: a sudden fit of frustration. One of Sherlock’s tantrums.  
  
He takes a shower. Because  _sweet blazes,_  he stinks to high heaven and the stubble on his jaw isn’t a shadow so much as the start of a really pathetic beard, and his clothes look exactly as they ought for his having slept in them.  
  
He tips his head gratefully into the spray and thinks, nonsensically,  _I wonder how Sarah’s tattoo is healing?_  The stunning inappropriateness of this  _slams_  into him, leaving him weak-kneed and panting.  _Moriarty could be doing God-knows-what to her at this very moment,_  he reminds himself.  _I’d rather have her here and covered in keloid tissue than there._  
  
When the bathroom door opens, he jerks upright again, pulling the curtain back to find Sherlock staring at him, concern narrowing those pale eyes.  
  
“You sounded… distressed,” Sherlock says, sweeping his gaze up and down to scan for injury.  
  
“I’m… fine,” John answers weakly. Of course, there’s ‘fine,’ and there’s  _'fine,’_  but Sherlock will know what he means.  
  
Sherlock’s gaze has landed on the hand John’s using to grip the edge of the curtain. “You have a scar at the base of your smallest finger,” he observes.  
  
“Yes,” John replies, not knowing what else to say.  
  
“Moriarty’s men threatened to cut it off, but broke it instead.”   
  
John tries not to flinch, and fails. For whatever, reason, Sherlock has never asked what had happened when Moriarty’s men had abducted him. John has always been grateful for it, but he wishes that Sherlock’s abstracted sense of courtesy had failed sooner. It’s  _worse_  to talk about it now, with the unspoken potential hanging in the air.  _Sarah could be…_    
  
“-yes,” John says again. There’s a long silence while Sherlock stares into the middle distance.  
  
“If he dares cut her before I get the chance, I will have to re-evaluate the merits of torture,” Sherlock says finally.  
  
That is so  _blindingly_  far from anything resembling ‘right’ that John simply splutters against the rivulets of water on his face until Sherlock turns and walks away, leaving the door ajar in his wake.   
  
John finishes his ablutions and opens the medicine cabinet to get his razor. Which is how he finds the cocaine.  
  
  
Day Four  
  
Sarah keeps folding cranes until she runs out of loose paper. She's lost count of their number; but then again, that's not the  _point._  She tears pages out of the blank books and folds until her vision blurs and her fingertips go numb. It becomes automatic, leaving her plenty of time to think. To think, and to remember, and to plan.  
  
Just in case.  
  
  
Day Four  
  
John can't remember ever being this livid.  
  
“Sherlock,” he grits between his teeth, the little glass vial in his hand. “ _Sherlock._  Tell me you didn't take any of this.”  
  
Sherlock gives him an elaborate, scornful eyeroll and continues to pace circles through the carpet.  
  
John's about to start yelling -  _There's a reason cocaine is illegal, Sherlock!_  - but, as always, Mrs. Hudson has impeccable timing. She trundles in with a tray of sandwiches and their mail tucked under one arm. John takes a deep, shaky breath so that he won't strangle the poor woman.  
  
  
Day Four  
  
Loneliness and despair creep in on little cat feet, and Sarah swats them away.  _They will come for me,_  she thinks firmly,  _or I will find a way to get out._  She wills her thoughts away from the sheer futility of her surroundings, and makes herself remember.  
  
 _John and Sherlock,_  she thinks,  _not ‘my boys,’ as Mum calls them, but my_ ** _men_** _. Intelligent and capable and strong, both of them._  The tattoo at the small of her back still stings, and she reminds herself to wash it again before she goes to sleep.  
  
She can’t but think of them intimately. Not of sex, but of the quiet things. Idly wrapping Sherlock’s hair round her index finger as he rests his head on her lap; the only way he’ll ever share the couch is if he lies over the other occupant(s) as well.  
  
John’s face when he sleeps, younger when he’s not having nightmares, a total stranger when he is. How he lights up when she gets him coffee or tea during an all-night investigation, the scratch of his stubble when he gives her a kiss in gratitude. Sherlock never looks up, but he always takes the mug in a way that lets him slide his fingertips over her knuckles, silent and distracted thanks.  
  
John’s laughter, Sherlock’s sulks. And vice versa. Their exultation when they’ve come back from solving a case. Sherlock’s hands on his violin, on a scalpel. John's hands on a gun, or gentling a skittish child at the practise.  
  
Their scars: bullet wounds, shrapnel lines, chemical burns, and IV pockmarks on inner elbows. Similar causes, different meanings for each, distinct and terrible and awe-inspiring in turn, but also familiar maps, tapestry of their lives beneath her fingertips.  
  
Sarah wonders how they'll find her. Because they  _will_  find her, absolutely they will.  
  
She just hopes they don't take their bloody time about it, that's all.  
  
  
Day Four  
  
Sherlock doesn't know whether to bless or curse Mrs. Hudson's timing when she brings them a tray of food. The duelling impulses only intensify when he spots the envelope under her arm, recognizing it immediately. He snatches it away from her before she even offers it, scrutinising it immediately.  
  
 _Bohemian paper again,_  he observes, ignoring her squawk of protest.  _Same woman writing, using an expensive ballpoint pen, perhaps a Parker or a-_  
  
When Mrs. Hudson leaves, John draws breath to start shouting again, and Sherlock  _really_  couldn't care less about John's moralising right now.  
  
He knows he should tell John about last night, about the featureless void that had threatened to swallow him whole from the inside after John had left. No Sarah, and no John.  _Unbearable._  He’d tried to become the man he’d been before they had entered his life, withdrawing into the cold demeanour that had been his insulation, his armour.  _The body transport, and the emotions irrelevant,_  he’d thought back then.  _Coddling either aspect leads to weakness, distraction, and muddled logic._  
  
But then they’d snared him into their warmth and complicatedness, and it had been.  _Nice._  It lent meaning to his accomplishments, having John’s admiring stare, Sarah’s fond congratulations. John at his back on a case meant lessened physical danger, and two doctors at home meant he didn’t have to stitch himself up the times he  _did_  get injured. And they were such pleasant  _distraction_  when he got bored.  
  
And yes, damn it all, he envies them their casual affection, the ease with which they can be open about their relationship. Sherlock wants nothing more than to proclaim, somehow, that they are  _his,_  both of them, and that he’s earned a place in their lives and hearts. And they his. It’s probably his greatest accomplishment.  
  
Second-greatest, after he puts an end to Moriarty. That will be as good as any declaration.  
  
But in the middle of the night, with both of them gone, he’d  _hurt,_  an ache that radiated from his chest and made his hands tremble. So: painkillers. But then, he'd lose focus, the pure clarity of mind, and he’d thought… Never mind, it was foolish, and he’d stared at the vial after bringing it home, already knowing all the risks.  
  
He’d stashed it away, keeping it safe in case he needed it later. He’d rather take the chance, buy an edge when it counted, and perish saving Sarah than allow Moriarty the opportunity to get away again.  
  
Now John’s found it, and he won’t  _get it,_  and Sherlock doesn’t know the words to  _make_  him understand.  
  
Sherlock holds up a hand before John can start shouting again, and says, “We have two choices, John: one, we keep arguing about something irrelevant; or two, we see what Moriarty’s sent us.”  
  
John’s clearly torn, his mouth opening and closing a few times. Then he sighs. “It’s not  _irrelevant._  We  _will_  deal with this later,” he replies finally, shaking the vial at Sherlock then tucking it away in his kit. He’ll be ruined on every possible level if it’s ever found. Sherlock makes a mental note to remove it later. “So. Tell me about the envelope.”  
  
Sherlock flashes him a quick, grateful smile, and does so.  
  
As before, there are no distinctive markings about the envelope that will lead them to its sender. All that’s in it is a single hair, looped around and tucked into a circle.  
  
It’s Sarah’s.  
  
It smells, very faintly, of Sherlock’s shampoo – which is curious but not particularly telling.  
  
Sherlock takes it to his microscope, John hovering over his shoulder. “Skin tag present but no trace of blood or trauma, so it wasn't removed through violence,” he murmurs aloud, before catching sight of an anomaly. “John, do you see that?”  
  
Sherlock leans to one side and John crowds in further to peer through the eyepiece. “Is that…writing?” he asks in disbelief.  
  
“Etching, actually, but yes,” Sherlock says, mind racing.  
  
“ _UNHARMED,_ ” John reads aloud. “Oh, that smug tosser, I’ll feed him his teeth.”  
  
“And I’ll gladly give you the opportunity,” Sherlock says, bolting out of the seat, “now that he’s made a  _mistake._ ”  
  
Sherlock gets their coats, tossing John’s across the room. John catches it one-handed and shrugs into it, a bewildered frown creasing his forehead. “What mistake?”  
  
“The letters, John. How did he  _make_  the letters, neat and even, carved into a single strand of hair?” Sherlock smiles as dawning comprehension lights up John’s face. “It’s not a very common tool that can do that.”  
  
With that, they’re off.  
  
  
Day Four  
  
Sarah steels herself and sleeps in the replica of Sherlock's bed. She wants advance warning, a little distance from the main door, in case Moriarty comes back again.  
  
She remembers  _pretending_  with Sherlock. How they'd tangled up together on John's bed while John had been taken.  
  
Sarah tries not to think about the condition John had been in when they'd gotten him  _back._  
  
  
Day Five  
  
John finds himself pressing a gun up under the soft chins of a diamond merchant. Sherlock’s behind him staring down the other employees.  _We’re going to catch hell from Lestrade,_  he thinks with a kind of distant hysteria, but he can’t be arsed to care about it at the moment. Not when he and Sherlock spent the whole night tracing their fragile lead, sleepless and intent and now they’re  _so close_ …  
  
“We know you’re smuggling blood diamonds and etching false serial numbers onto them,” Sherlock announces. “And we know who you work for.”  
  
“We d-don’t-” the fat man stammers, yelping when John cocks his weapon. “We’re independents, oh god, please, if you’re one of  _his_  people, tell him we’ll stop, work for him, whatever he wants, just please-”  
  
“What,” Sherlock says, thunder in his voice. “ _Who do you think we work for?_ ”  
  
“M-moriarty,” the man says. “One of his people found us out last week and said  _He_  didn’t like competing businesses. He wanted his cut. We-we sent his man off, but he said he’d be back. A-aren’t you-?”  
  
Sherlock hisses frustration under his breath. “ _Stop._  Stop uttering your idiocy or I’ll have my man shoot.” John’s running on adrenaline and sleep-deprivation, but he’s not quite sure he should be on board with that last bit. He glances over his shoulder to see Sherlock pointing at a scrawny ginger kid in the corner who’s desperately trying to avoid their attention. “You. What did this man look like. Clearly you know more than anyone else here.”  
  
“I-I don’t know what you’re…”  
  
“Oh, give us a little credit,” Sherlock cuts in, “If you weren’t already near wetting yourself, you’ve also got physical traces of a gambling addiction. The scrap of a torn-up ticket stuck to the sole of your shoe, for one, and the tell-tale smudges of ink on your cuff. With your bluffing abilities, I’d say you owe some people rather a lot of money, and you mentioned your boss’ illicit dealings as a possible way to pay them back.”  
  
Everyone in the room is gaping at the poor kid, and he shrinks back into his corner. “I-I…”  
  
John shoves his forearm against the fat man’s chest, pinning him in place, and swings the gun over to point at the kid. “Moriarty took my fiancée,” he says, slowly and with intent. “And if you know how to find him, you had better tell me _right now._ ”  
  
Now everyone’s staring at  _him_  again.  
  
Oh, that’s right. His face is already all over the news. This...  _might_  not have been the best idea.  
  
  
Day Five  
  
Sarah wakes to find all of her paper cranes on the floor around the bed, their little pointed beaks staring up at her. She's not sure what is more unnerving: the perfectly arranged tableau or the fact that Moriarty set it all up without her waking. She steps around them to go to the loo, and comes back to turn them all around, a hundred and eighty degrees, so that they face outwards.   
  
Rows and rows of sentinels, standing guard around the bed.  
  
  
Day Six  
  
John could have picked their target out from the crowded gambling den even without Sherlock's muttered help. “There, John, see the set of the shoulders, the position of her right hand on the table beside the dealt cards...” John nods more to stop the stream of words than to actually signal understanding.   
  
He works his way through the crowd and sits across from the woman, catching her gaze significantly. If she's surprised to see him, she doesn't show it. The others at the table catch the mood John brings with him, though. Two leave, a testament to this woman's reputation, and the others vacate when she gestures. She lets her hand drop back to the table, the first two fingers flat and the rest curled loosely at her palm.  
  
“Colonel,” John greets her, almost pleasantly. Military recognizes military, after all, and he ought show some respect for it. Even if she's hasn't.  
  
She smiles, untinted gloss on her lips catching the light. “ _Medic,_ ” she replies, cool and insulting and still –  _still!_  - calm as a cucumber. The only sign that she's noticed Sherlock's sudden presence behind her is the slight curl of her forefinger.  
  
“Moran,” Sherlock intones, one gloved hand falling to her shoulder, the other hidden behind her back. John wonders if he should regret having given Sherlock the gun, but it's too late for that now. He feels keyed up and on edge, worry and anger and lack of sleep itching beneath his skin.  
  
“I knew I should have killed that little wanker from the diamond shop,” she says.  
  
  
Day Six  
  
“Kipling,” Moriarty muses, picking Sarah’s book up in his hand. He’s too casual, a layer of agitation making his movements more jerky than usual. “I always preferred Carroll. He was a mathematician, you know.” He smiles and raps on the door, three strikes in rapid succession. The bolt withdraws with a creak, and two unpleasant-looking men enter, immediately looking to Moriarty for some signal.  
  
Sarah backs away, apprehension seizing her. “What-?” she starts, but she thinks she already knows. Before, he'd visited to acquire a reward for Sherlock. Proof that she was alive and well.  
  
This... this does not look like a reward.  
  
“I thought you might be  _lonely,_ ” Moriarty sneers at her. “So I’ve brought you some company. Sorry I can’t stay, but I have a crisis to handle. You can thank John and Sherlock for it.”  
  
The door clangs shut behind him.  
  
  
Day Six  
  
“You know, he gave me strict orders, just in case you actually managed to track me down,” Moran says, rolling her thumb against the stack of chips in front of her in a casual caress that makes them rattle. She's still smiling, still composed as if there isn't the barrel of a gun at the base of her neck, beneath the trailing ends of her short-cropped auburn hair.  
  
 _She'd probably been a cracking good soldier,_  John thinks with some admiration threading its way through his intense desire to leap across the table and throttle her. He won't hit a civilian woman, not ever, but he's pretty sure that Moran's an exception to a lot of rules. Her rumoured sniper training, for one.  
  
“What were your orders?”  
  
“It's your turn to make a choice, gentlemen.” Her smile stretches wider, echoes of Moriarty's madness in her eyes. “The lady, or the tiger?”  
  
  
Day Six  
  
Sarah hears yelling through the door. Moriarty: “-three men today, I am not above making it four! Now open it!” She tries to sit up but her ribs  _ache_  and she thinks she's got a dislocated shoulder. The door swings open and the man himself enters, the expression on his face absolutely  _terrifying._  
  
Sarah smiles at him, sweetly as she can through the pain.  
  
She must look a fright. He actually looks repulsed, his eyes flickering over her with disdain. She can taste blood in her mouth and it's not all hers. He gestures, and more of his men file in, fanning out to stand guard while a couple head down the hallway.  
  
 _Blood-borne pathogens,_  she thinks absently, and spits onto the carpet.  _Glad this isn't the real place, or Mrs. Hudson would have kittens._  But it's not, and there's already a puddle there from when she'd heaved up bile not five minutes earlier.  
  
Not to mention the damage elsewhere.  
  
Moriarty's people haul out the prone bodies of their unlucky comrades. Sarah isn't going to pretend that it was anything _but_  luck, either. Luck that she got to the bedroom before they pinned her down, luck that Moriarty didn't think to bolt the bookshelves there to the walls – felling one man with severe head trauma. Luck that the bedside lamp had broken apart in such a way that Sarah had something sharp in her hand when the second man fought his way to her past the obstacle of the first.  
  
And all right, a little bit of skill in where to plant that sharp spine of metal when he seized her. But that's not the kind of thing that her medical training ought have ever been used for, really.  
  
“Who was the third?” she asks. Her voice is a  _wreck._  She remembers a hand around her throat, crushing her windpipe as she drove the point upwards...  
  
“What?” Moriarty snaps. She wonders if she's just made herself too dangerous to keep alive. For all she knows, he could turn around right now, lock her in, and walk away for good. Sarah doesn't think of the many slow, awful ways she could die here if he did that.  
  
She just smiles, blood on her face and in her teeth and matting her hair, and asks again, “Who was the third man? If I took care of two...?”  
  
 _John,_  she thinks, hoping with all her might.  _Sherlock._  
  
“None of your concern,” Moriarty replies and leaves, the rest of his men fall in line behind him. The door slams to behind the last with eerie finality.  
  
  
Day Seven  
  
“I should arrest both of you,” Lestrade says, not even looking at them. “But I've been  _reliably informed_  that you'd be out within an hour.”  
  
John can't be arsed to care. In fact, a part of him feels like they've made a great concession in calling the authorities at all. But even Sherlock had to admit that  _raiding one of Moriarty's secret underground bunkers on their own_  was a bit foolhardy.  
  
So instead, they're standing as close as Lestrade will permit while they wait for the professionals to do their work, even as his blood is singing,  _'We're the professionals! Sarahsarahsarah-!'_  
  
There is rather more waiting than he can bear, actually. He's straining forward with ears and eyes, his whole body a line of tension, when a hand comes to rest at the small of his back. Reassurance, anchoring him in place.  
  
He glances at Sherlock beside him, whose eyes are just as avid, his mouth pressed together in a thin line. Sherlock doesn't even look at him, just rubs John's spine once with his thumb and is still.  
  
Then,  _then,_  there's a crowd pouring out the closest exit, barely visible past the cluster of police vans. John breaks, running forward, only belatedly realising that Sherlock's beaten him to it, half a step ahead already.  
  
He spots Sarah first, though, in the flood of personnel, and fights his way to her.  
  
 _God,_  she looks  _awful,_  he thinks, but she's alive and there, and he can't help but reach out to pull her close, reassuring himself that  _yes, this is real._  She makes a small, hurting sound against him as he folds her in his arms, but her hands are around him, too, and she's whispering his name into his jacket as if it's as vital as breathing.  
  
“John,” she murmurs, hoarse and beautiful. “Johnjohnjohn...”  
  
Sherlock's there a moment later, despite the paramedics trying to shoulder them aside. John lets Sarah go halfway, leaving one arm around her waist as Sherlock grips her shoulders. His intent gaze flick-flicks over her, gathering every ounce of data he can.  
  
Then Sherlock carefully slides his gloved hands up to cup her face, draws her in, and he's  _kissing_  her, slow and gentle and almost sweet.  _Oh,_  John thinks, feeling giddy and lightheaded and warm.   
  
When the kiss breaks, the three of them are left smiling stupidly at each other, until Sarah says, “Please tell me that the men over there aren't  _reporters._ ”  
  
Reality rushes back in.  _Oh,_  John thinks again.  _Oh, bollocks._  
  
  
Day Seven  
  
There's nothing seriously wrong with Sarah – nothing that a great deal of rest and a few proper meals won't fix, at least – but the doctors want her at the hospital overnight for observation, just in case. She smiles, already dosed to the gills with painkillers, and agrees with their assessment.  
  
John and Sherlock hover, though, trading glowers as she gives her statement to Sally. “You two can wait outside if this is  _upsetting_  for you,” Sally says acerbically once, with a twist to her lips that might be read as a reassuring smile for Sarah.  
  
“No, no,” John says quickly. “That's fine. Go on.” Sherlock simply strides over to the window and takes up an appropriately dramatic brooding stance, staring blindly at the glass as if he's tracing words and figures across the surface with an invisible felt-tip pen.  
  
When she reaches the bit about the two thugs, she slows and stops. “...they. They  _tried,_ ” she says finally. “It didn't work out for them.” And it's only John's startled gaze that makes her add, “They had to be carried out,” in a very quiet voice.  
  
Even Sherlock's staring at her now, the invisible murder plots on the windowpane completely forgotten.  
  
“Well done,” Sally says approvingly, breaking the silence. “What happened after that?” Sarah takes a deep breath and keeps going, on and on, answering questions and repeating details. None of it will help them find Moriarty, of course, but she's willing to try.  
  
Sarah suspects that she's in for rather a lot of therapy after this. It's almost funny how two people in this relationship have needed psychiatric help, and neither of them are Sherlock.  
  
She doesn't say this aloud. It probably won't be funny to anyone else, not yet, and certainly not to Sally.  
  
Sally confirms this when they're done, snapping her PDA closed with an efficient and practised flip of her wrist. “Right, well. I'll stop bothering you, but you think of anything, don't forget to call us before they-” she nods to the two men behind her, “-run off without backup again, right?”   
  
Sarah nods agreeably. “Thanks, Sally,” she says, meaning it. Somehow Sally's presence, with her dry cynicism and brusque professionalism, made the process easier than,  _god,_  talking to Lestrade, who's been all hang-dog eyes and gruff sincerity since she's seen him.  _Sherlock's probably been a holy terror,_  Sarah thinks sadly.  _I should send him some good scotch, for all that he puts up with._  
  
“No problem,” Sally replies. “And by the way, you lot lost me twenty quid.” She gives Sarah a rueful glance from behind hanging curls. “Buy me lunch sometime to make up for it, if they ever give you time off. I know Sherlock's got my number.”  
  
“Twenty... twenty quid?” John asks, tongue darting out to lick his lower lip. “Who... what was the bet, exactly?”  
  
Sally beams at them, quick and bright. “Not worth my job to tell,” she says, and strides off, leaving them alone in the hospital room.  
  
They're all quiet for a moment. “So practically everybody knows about this, then,” John says, sounding supremely uncomfortable. “All... all right, then.” He's probably thinking of Uncle Victor's 'antique gun collection'.  
  
“Don't be hyperbolic, John, of course not  _everyone_  knows,” Sherlock says. “In fact, I asked my brother to intercept the publication of any... incriminating photographs.” He grins at them.  
  
 _You spoke to your brother?_  Sarah almost says,  _Without an intermediary? Will wonders never cease?_  But she's racked by a yawning fit that leaves her teary-eyed and dizzy. John takes her hand and squeezes it gently, apology writ large on his face.  
  
“We should let you get some rest,” he says.  
  
“No,” she says, “I'd really rather have you both here, if that's all right.”  
  
“Of course,” John replies, pulling up a chair beside her bed, not letting go of her hand. Sherlock perches on the broad ledge of the windowsill on the other side, swinging his heels up so that his long legs are impossibly wedged in the short space.  
  
“I'll tell you one thing,” she manages around another yawn. “It'll be nice to have you two taking care of me for a change.” Sherlock huffs amusement through his nose, tucking his chin down into the lapels of his jacket, and John's warm, open chuckle follows her down into sleep.  
  
  
Day Ten  
  
There's been an envelope sent to the Yard, Sarah's name on it in a familiar hand. “Delivered in person,” Lestrade says, handing it over. Sherlock examines it closely while Lestrade keeps  _talking._  “We've gone over it for any poisons, explosives, or otherwise hazardous-”  
  
“The paper is different,” Sherlock interrupts.  
  
“Can I have my post, please?” Sarah asks from the couch, gesturing imperiously in lieu of getting up, as per John and Sherlock's strict instructions. Sherlock glances over, as usual struck by how aesthetically pleasing she manages to be, even with bruises livid on her neck and a plaster on her nose and one arm held in place by a sling. “It is illegal to tamper with someone else's mail, you know.”  
  
“Is that from who I think it is?” John asks, strolling out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish-towel.  
  
“Likely, yeah,” Lestrade says.  
  
“Burn it,” John says decisively, and slings the towel over one shoulder, his hands on his hips. “I mean it. Burn it or... At least give it to  _Sarah,_  Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock complies, running his fingers over the surface of the envelope, trying to place it. Something about the weft of it, the texture...  _Damn, damn,_  Sherlock curses silently, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to focus as everyone else talks around him.  
  
There's a tearing noise as she opens it, and Sherlock stores the precise quality of the sound in case it will help. Two types of paper that seem otherwise identical may have slight structural differences which would lead to different sound qualities. He resolves to get the envelope back as soon as possible, likely two to four minutes from now.  
  
“Oh,” Sarah says, soft and quiet in the sudden quiet. Sherlock opens his eyes to see, in case it's important.  
  
One of her paper cranes, rust-red splatter obscuring the type in some places. It's a message to her, not to Sherlock, an acknowledgement of the qualities she held and which Moriarty hadn't expected, almost a token of respect, in Moriarty's own twisted way. There's a second message, though, one for Sherlock alone, still embedded in the envelope itself, a challenge, a  _dare_...  
  
“Bern!” Sherlock blurts, the instant it leaps to mind. “Switzerland. Actually, sorry, Swiss Confederation to be precise, somewhere in the canton of Bern.” He's already reaching for his coat, one hand scrolling through flight listings, when a voice stops him at the door.  
  
“Sherlock,” John says. “Don't you  _dare._  Don't even  _think_  of going, especially not alone.”  
  
Lestrade brushes past him, his mobile already at his ear, passing the information on, taking  _Sherlock's_  clue, and it's _infuriating._  He spins on his heel and faces John, angry words dying on his lips when he sees the expressions on their faces.  
  
“What was it like, when John was gone?” Sarah asks. “What was it like when I was gone?”  
  
Her voice is so, so gentle, but it rips through his chest like the bullet wound is still fresh, her words like John's fingers, digging through skin and muscle and blood. Touching straight to bone.  
  
“Don't play his game, Sherlock,” John says. “Not any more. He's out of London, out of Britain. There's nothing to gain from going after him yourself.”  
  
 _There are waterfalls in Switzerland,_  a voice says in the back of Sherlock's mind.  
  
He reaches behind him and closes the door.

 

 

\- end of story 7 -

**Author's Note:**

> One line in this story ("Loneliness and despair creep in on little cat feet...") is a deliberate alteration of the  
> first line of Carl Sandburg's poem, "Fog." 
> 
> "Lorem Ipsum" is a very very wry graphic design joke. For more information, go to www.lipsum.com. I have taken some liberties with the translatability of the faux‐Latin, but the original source text does translate very closely to what I have quoted in the story.
> 
> All stories in this series have their own warnings - read the headers carefully before proceeding.


End file.
